


Fool's Gold

by Schwanenwald



Category: Fortnite (Video Game), Fortnite Battle Royale (Video Game)
Genre: Alchemy, All of Season 2's agent characters work for GHOST, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternates from Another Dimension, Boss/Employee Relationship, Brutus is a huge movie nerd, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Common Sense Takes Precedence Over Video Game Mechanics, During Canon, Evil Twins, Explicit Language, GHOST vs SHADOW organization, GHOST-Midas is going to have a bad day, Headcanon, Homoeroticism, I'm sorry for the long-winded lectures, Immortality, James Bond Tropes, M/M, Midas is a man of many secrets, Midas is old-fashioned, Midas is older than he appears, Minor Character Death, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Explicit Sex, Non-Graphic Violence, Power Imbalance, Pre-Canon, Pulp Science Fiction, SHADOW-Midas is an utter psychopath, Science, Science Fiction, Slow Burn, Spy Agency, Story told from Brutus' Point of View, The Fortnite planet is a Well World (but no crossover), This plot will most likely be obliterated by the in-game season ending event, This story diverges massively from game canon after Patch 12.61
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:20:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23465305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schwanenwald/pseuds/Schwanenwald
Summary: When the mysterious scientist collective only known as "The Seven" contacted Midas, the ultrarich mastermind and leader of the intelligence agency and mercenary organization known as GHOST, they offered him advanced technology in exchange for securing a strange island for them. Normally, no-one hires Midas, you request his organization's services, and odds are he already knows more about you than you do. But it was an offer too good to refuse, thought Midas... even if in retrospect maybe he should have. But after all, the scouts from GHOST's sub-division E.G.O. had already established beachheads and reported minimal resistance except for some interference by enemy agents, and GHOST's agents have powerful weaponry at their disposal, so what could go wrong?Now Midas (known as "the Man with the Golden Touch") and his Agents and henchmen have crossed the dimensional bridge created by the Seven to a world that seems peaceful at first glance. But a shadowy presence is encroaching on GHOST territory. And some secrets of the past refuse to stay buried in Midas's memories.
Relationships: Brutus (Fortnite)/Midas (Fortnite)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 42





	1. Introduction (please read)

**INTRODUCTION (please read)**

_[written 2 April 2020]_

I have tried to stick as closely as possible to canonical Fortnite lore established in Chapter 1 and Chapter 2 Seasons 1-2 in regard to the Seven (The Visitor, Scientist, Paradigm and their four yet unknown alternates), the Black Hole event, E.G.O and Alter, GHOST and SHADOW.

But with the Fortnite Battle Royale lore being so sketchy, I had to fill up a lot of gaps with my own headcanon and predictions and had to revise some chapters as events unfolded in-game. I started writing the first chapter and draft in the first week of March 2020, after the Grotto had been taken over by SHADOW and after I spent an interesting weekend taking screenshots of and examining Midas's tattoos in max resolution, looking for additional clues to the pre-season ARG.

[Updated 3 April 2020] To judge by the leaked bits of Midas's personal intro trailer and the hints about the planned "Doomsday" event that will close Chapter 2 Season 2, the plot in this story will be completely non-canonicaly in about 4 weeks time as it gets obliterated by Epic's story as it unfolds in-game. That can't be helped. Let's treat this as a Mirror Universe where Midas has other intentions and goals.

Note #1: The Storm as a gameplay mechanism of _'Fortnite: Battle Royale'_ does not appear in my version of the Island's reality. This is a story about the FNBR agents of Chapter 2, and the Storm does not affect them.

I have also ignored the Storm lore of ' _Fortnite: Save The World'_ , as FNBR's has moved away from the FNSTW background plot "The Storm came and 99% of the population disappeared, also monsters spawned". Instead FNBR has introduced more and more settlements, factories, farms and "moving" vehicles (moving via patch map updates) to the main map that make it appear as if people live there, starting with the meteorite impact crater in Chapter 1 Season 4 and the subsequent reactions by government agencies to it. So for the sake of this story, it is assumed that the Island has a native population of humans and… some other creatures, who go by their lives.

But since the agents of E.G.O. and GHOST (as well as their counterparts, see Note #2 below) are Outsiders, they are out of phase with the rest of the inhabitants, only rarely able to interact with them and be seen. This acts as an explanations why the Island's inhabitants did not turn up in droves at the Agency on the Eyeland to ask questions like, "Where did this huge building suddenly come from?" or "Why is there a new island shaped like a shark on the edge of the lagoon?" or "Who the heck are you people?"

In-game, the henchmen bots and bosses have distorted voices and disappear when the Storm reaches their location. The Storm in this story is a dimensional shift that periodically ebbs and wanes as the Seven stabilize the Bridge, a window of time in which the agents can interact with the native population as their realities overlap. When the Storm returns, they are shifted out of phase again, like ghosts, and can only interact with their own equipment they brought with them or with objects that have a long-term presence, like rocks, trees, hills, old buildings, but they can't start a car. That is the reason Midas and his agents mostly stick to their bases, the reality bubbles they brought with them (thanks to some plot devices the Seven have installed), while they wait out an "acclimatization period".

Note #2: In my story, Midas is far older than he appears to be. Midas was hired by the Seven, and the Season 2 Battle Pass agents in the HQ (Midas, Brutus, TNTina, Meowcles, Skye, Maya) have come to the Fortnite Island from "outside", across the dimensional bridge established by the Seven, just as the members of E.G.O. were sent ahead as scouting troops to establish beachheads on the newly (re)formed island. _[Based on the messages sent through the Black Hole and in the Chapter 2 Season 1 launch trailer.]_ Other agents seen in the season launch trailer have been recruited either from the ranks of E.G.O. (i.e. Journey) or from creatures native to the Island (such as Peely and Bush Ranger).

In my headcanon, the GHOST and SHADOW organizations are two separate but basically identical spy agencies from alternate dimensions, same as the "alter egos" plot of Season 1 with E.G.O. characters and their evil alternates from Alter. That means there are two of each character. Canonically, the logos of E.G.O. and GHOST are identical, and Alter and SHADOW share an identical logo as well. Because of that, I treat E.G.O. as a sub-division of GHOST, with Midas as the founder, owner and leader of the globally acting intelligence agency and private mercenary company GHOST.

In-game, the five named spy bases (The Agency, the Grotto, the Rig, the Yacht, and the Shark) and the Ghost House landmark started out as GHOST-affiliated, with the Agency and the Yacht even sharing the same white-clad robotic henchmen and white loot crates with GHOST logo, while the other bases had their own henchmen in location-specific outfits. The five SHADOW Safe Houses belonged to SHADOW. The Grotto and the Rig have since been taken over by SHADOW henchmen, with the SHADOW alternates of the named boss character (Brutus and TNTina) replacing their GHOST agent counterpart, instead of (as some fans have assumed) Brutus and TNTina defecting to SHADOW. In my story, the GHOST agents are still alive. They are simply no longer stationed at bases conquered by the enemy.

_[This is based on Brutus's in-game character intro trailer and his private room in the HQ. In the original intro trailer, he wears his default grey suit and enters the room with a stolen SHADOW intel suitcase, he has GHOST files and a coffee cup with the GHOST logo on his desk._

_On the wall over his bed you can see several framed paintings and photographs, several of which can be found in the Agency and at the "Ghost Flowers" office at Retail Row: Most notably, a picture of a massive building that resembles the in-game Agency building, but which is clearly several times bigger, built on a mountaintop, and designed like a bunker mixed with a medieval fortress, with sheer and slightly sloping walls, windows that only start at several meters' height and look like embrasures, and a recessed entrance that is easily defendable with auto-turrets as it is shielded from the sides and above. I assume this is the original GHOST Agency headquarter, back home in the world that Midas, Brutus et al. are coming from._

_The only photo that gives me problems is the one that shows a man in the SHADOW-Brutus outfit (black suit, black shirt and black ski mask with white skull symbol) standing in front of a 1950s style diner and limousine, side by side with a brunette woman in a sort of superhero costume who is holding a pistol. The same picture hangs in the "Shadow Lanterns" offices right next to the "Ghost Flowers" offices at Retail Row. But the outfit of GHOST-Brutus also features the same black shirt with his skull motif and a black cloth mask under his white suit and white stylized skull-shaped helmet. So maybe, wild speculation, that was his generic bruiser outfit before he joined GHOST? Will Epic ever reveal what's up with that photo? Or the indistinct photo in his room that shows three people sitting side by side?]_

Note #3: In my headcanon, Brutus acts as Midas's bodyguard, and is far more intelligent than most people give him credit for at first glance. _[Based on Brutus's appearance and behavior in his original character intro trailer. He is clearly not a mouth-breathing brute, even if his distorted in-game boss voicelines make him sound like Arnold Schwarzenegger in 'Terminator'._ ] He was stationed at the Grotto as Midas's right hand man to oversee the henchmen at the Grotto once the SHADOW threat became apparent, as the Grotto houses the largest of the five Vaults and is the one storing the heaviest weapons.

Note #4: In this story, Meowcles is a genetically engineered anthropoid cat with uplifted intelligence. He has a normal feline head, not the cartoonish head and face of his in-game models. He has claws in his fingers. He can't speak human languages, because the in-game voice lines of the Meowcles boss on the Yacht are cat growls and hisses. But he can read and write, as evidenced by the black board in Meowcles's gym seen in-game.

Note #5: I borrowed the term G.E.L.F. (Genetically Engineered Lifeform) from the British TV show 'Red Dwarf'. Good show.

Note #6: Deadpool will _not_ appear in this story. I don't need any 4th wall breaking, and if I included him, he would turn this into a Deadpool story.

Final Note: I will use the American spelling of English words in this story, except in direct speech by Midas where I will use British (UK) spelling, as in my headcanon, Midas is British.

\--------------------

All Fortnite characters belong to Epic Games. I'm just borrowing them for a bit.


	2. The Mastermind [Apollo Chapter 1]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brutus ponders how little he really knows about the man he's been working for for years.

**[Apollo island, unknown planet, Day 10 after arrival]**

There were many unanswered questions in Brutus' life at the moment, and the one at the top of the list was, 'Am I working for a supervillain?' followed by 'How old is Mr. Midas, exactly?' and 'Does this man ever _sleep_?'

If that was an uptick or downtick from the question, 'Am I getting paid enough for this job?' under previous employers was something Brutus hadn't decided on yet. One thing you could say with certainty about Midas, at least, was that he paid you royally.

Brutus had to admit the Sean Connery and Roger Moore era James Bond movies were a guilty pleasure of his, especially corny titles like _'Moonraker'_. And Midas ticked all the boxes on the "James Bond Villain Mastermind" clichés list, even if he seemed to be, well, maybe not exactly affable as such, but genial enough.

Richest person in the world: check. Smart, ruthless and arrogant: check. Private army of masked goons: check. Designs and builds "doomsday" devices in his spare time: Admittedly, some of the GHOST agency's weaponry might fall into that category. Owns a supervillain lair with armored vaults filled with guns and riches: Several lairs in fact, including a yacht and a tropical island shaped like a goddamn _shark_.

Reminiscent of at least three Bond villains: Goldfinger. (Literally.) Secondly, Scaramanga, the Man with the Golden Gun. (Again, literally, as Midas could turn anything to gold with his touch; although Brutus had decided it could not _possibly_ be normal gold as chemistry knew it, because guns made from pure, malleable, not to mention _heavy_ gold would be a terrible idea. Yet Midas's favorite Thompson Caliber .45 drum-fed submachine gun and engraved pair of heavy pistols worked devastatingly well. As did Brutus's beloved Minigun Ludmilla, after her "spruce-up" by Midas.)

And thirdly, Blofeld, the villain everyone remembered for his white cat. (Although, while Meowcles was technically a genetically uplifted, human-shaped, intelligent cat, but still a _cat_ that enjoyed being petted, the mountain of muscles and calico fur that was the six-year-old adult Meowcles would certainly no longer fit on Midas's lap while the smaller man stroked his pet's head. Rather the other way around… a mental image Brutus found quite amusing.)

It did not help the case that Brutus' boss had a pleasant tenor voice that often held an undercurrent of menace in its precisely clipped words and soft-spoken British accent. Or that he had lost an eye in the past, the blind eyeball shining milky white under the scar, while the iris of his left eye literally _glowed_ in an odd shade of bright metallic gold. Or that his skin was unnaturally pale and his face so meticulously clean-shaven it didn't even show a beard shadow despite his dark hair, making him look like a marble statue shaped by the hand of an exquisite sculptor. Albeit a marble statue with dark circles of exhaustion permanently edged under its eyes, that looked like it was hooked on fifty cups of coffee a day. (Brutus's fingers were itching to drop a sleeping pill into his boss's midnight cocktail one of these days and then tuck him into bed. But when Midas eventually woke up, Brutus had better be far away from his rage… like, on the Moon. And even that might not be far enough.)

And Midas _clearly knew_ _all this_ , that was the worst part, and he dressed in bespoke conservative clothes tailored to show off his slim and elegant figure, which had landed him a spot on the _'Top 50 Best-Dressed Rich Bachelors'_ lists of various high-gloss fashion magazines and tabloids several years in a row. It was a form of asserting dominance over other men so unlike Brutus's own, but _damn_ , it worked.

And yet... and yet... Brutus had not seen Midas commit any actual _crimes_ , as such, had he? (Well, there _had_ been that one incident when he had turned an enemy would-be assassin into a solid gold statue even as the man had begged for mercy, eyes wide with horror. But that had clearly been in self-defense, right? And industrial espionage did hardly count, in Brutus's opinion, considering Midas held shares in every major company he didn't own outright. It was more of a hobby for the man, really. _Scientia sit potentia_ , was his motto: _Knowledge is power._ )

Instead the GHOST Agency offered intelligence services, covert ops, computer security, counterterrorism, and mercenaries for hire, or so Midas claimed. The Agency held many secrets, but its _existence_ in itself wasn't exactly a secret: The GHOST organization's global H.Q. back home was a castle-sized architectural complex in the Pyrenees mountains, designed and built with sheer, sloping walls and arrow-slit windows and a single recessed and fortified entrance with automatic turrets, like a cross between a medieval fortress and a WW2 bunker squatting on a mountaintop. Albeit a bunker covered in white marble and with gilded statues of Atlas in front of it, designed to cow any visitors and impress the rich clients. Brutus had heard that Midas had flat out bought the micro-nation of Andorra that the Agency now resided in, impressive considering Andorra had been a tax shelter for the filthy rich, and had moved the headquarters of his organization there from London. But that had been before Brutus had risen up the ranks to become Midas's bodyguard.

As far as supervillain clichés went, Midas had consistently failed to have people who displeased him fed to sharks… probably due to the utter absence of the prerequisite shark tanks on his private properties.

The man was unfailingly polite to his agents and other employees, even if his sarcasm could be biting when he was displeased. He acted like a middle-aged man, despite his oddly youthful looks. Midas was always restrained. He never _indulged_ himself, at least not in the presence of others. He did not seem to have a private life, despite being richer than Croesus and owning a yacht and a villa on a tropical island -- no, make that several islands, including Madagascar -- and famous art galleries and God knows what else. (But, whispered a tiny voice in the back of Brutus's head, what rich snob has a villa built that seems perfect for pool parties with the glittering jet-set, but then adds a swimming pool that is so small and plain only one person can fit in it? Neither the stairs down to the pool nor the path to the helipad are illuminated at night. There isn't even a king-size bed in the villa! Obviously, the man does not expect visitors to stay overnight.)

And the tattoos on his arms were frankly kind of embarrassing: Spiderwebs circling his elbows. A skull framed by flowers, a motive which reminded Brutus of the sugar skulls sold on the Mexican Day of the Dead. A lion or dragon head sprouting leaves (a snapdragon?). A rose in the crook of his arm. Aces of spades, a compass rose without directions, a cloud with lightning bolt, a swallow carrying an arrow in its beak? Those were the kind of motley tattoos a man gets as a teenager in an attempt to appear edgy and cool, and then regrets later in life; although Midas carried them with pride and meticulously rolled up his shirt sleeves to show them off.

Early on Brutus had wondered if Midas had ever been imprisoned or been part of a gang or organized crime syndicate in the past, as some of the motifs on his arms seemed like common prison tattoos: skulls and daggers were popular, the Ace of Spades was a symbol of thieves, and spiderwebs on the elbows used to signify that the wearer was a racial supremacist. But the linework was far too professionally executed for improvised prison tattoos. And these days, people wore all kinds of designs with no thought for their encoded meanings.

Even more curious, there was a _second_ layer of designs _on top of_ the black lines, done in gold. At first glance Brutus had thought it was merely the gold from Midas's hands sending out tendrils up his arms, as some of the black designs had been gilded. But one morning, when Brutus had been called in to help roll up his Boss's sleeves as Midas was busy trying to juggle a telephone call while dressing himself, he had stared at the man's wrist and suddenly, like shapes emerging from clouds, he had realized he was looking at the drawing of a _shark_ , a golden shark with jaws wide open, emerging from golden waves. There was a goddamn shark on each forearm, and the odd curlicues on the back of both hands which formed gaps of skin in the golden surface between Midas's thumbs and index fingers were part of the design, shaped like fins. Threatening each shark was a golden butterfly knife, its point aimed squarely at the shark's gaping maw.

The tattoos circling Midas' neck and extending under his shirt partway down his chest, shoulders and back must have been added later, as they were done in a more abstract and angular style, not unlike Brutus's own neck tattoo. An enigma.

One thing was for certain, a guy who has "24K" tattooed on his throat is blunt to the point of tackiness about how filthy rich he is. And yet… he wore no ostentatious jewelry, no diamond-studded cufflinks, no expensive wristwatch. Only an antique pocket-watch under his vest (which the Brit insisted on calling a _waistcoat_ ).

The man stood with poise and moved with the effortless grace of a dancer. Yet Brutus had never seen him dance at social occasions with the rich upper crust. He knew, from the one embarrassing occasion aboard the _Marigold_ where an assassin had managed to get past Brutus and close to Midas, that his boss had training in martial arts, favoring speed and agility over brute strength. He might even have been trained in classical ballet, to judge by the way he stood reed-straight with legs together and his feet at an angle, narrow tips of his perfectly polished buckled shoes pointing outwards. It was a stance Brutus had seen on ballet dancers from the Russian State Ballet (back when they had visited Moscow on business and been given an evening reception at the Bolshoi Theater by some smarmy oligarch), grinded into them by years of grueling training.

There was also the matter of the statue. That one didn't leave Brutus alone. There was this huge, bigger-than-life, gilded statue of Midas holding the world in his grasp in the middle of the salon on Midas's private yacht. It dominated the room, which was certainly the intention. But the statue depicted a younger Midas with both his eyes intact, an earnest-looking young man wearing nerdy glasses, his eyes set on the horizon. And the face looked... sad, Brutus always felt. Not at all triumphant, as its pose would imply. It was just an odd choice for a statue.

Anyway, there were many unanswered questions in Brutus' life, but the one he had just asked out loud, in as neutral a tone as possible, was: "Isn't it unethical to make money selling advanced weaponry to anyone who pays, Boss?"

Brutus had expected a reaction of annoyance or of wry amusement, but instead Midas had stopped on their inspection tour around their recently constructed and heavily fortified base at the location code-named _The Grotto_ and shot him a look of surprise. The slim man stared up at his taller bodyguard with a thoughtful expression, until Brutus had to force himself not to start shifting uncomfortably under the piercing golden gaze, as Midas' eye seemed to search Brutus' face for an answer to an unspoken question.

"You mean why don't I use my vast wealth and genius to, say, do something more utilitarian and altruistic, like solve all of Mankind's problems or build spaceships to go to Mars, instead?" Midas had asked, deadpan. One side of his mouth rose into a cynical snarl. "I could do that, if I put my mind to it. I might even succeed, and God help us all if I did. No. I'm giving them what they _want_ , not what _I_ think they need. Utopias never turn out quite the way we hoped." His voice was bitter. He looked at Brutus, daring him to say something, but Brutus just returned the look quietly.

Down here in the Grotto, Brutus had taken off his sunglasses, and for a brief moment he fought the urge to offer them to his employer, as the man seemed suddenly uncomfortable meeting his eyes.

Midas broke the gaze first. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against a railing, gesturing at nothing in particular. "And I'm keeping the most powerful weapons for us, of course. I'm not _stupid_."

"Never said you were, Boss."

"I'm not running a charity here, you know. Oh, I finance several non-profit organizations. It's a common pastime for the filthy rich. It makes for good press, it buys you political influence, not to mention you can write it off your taxes. And for those who have an ounce of sense -- excluding the firm believers in Ayn Rand's proposals about the enlightened virtues of selfishness -- funding medical research and conservation of natural resources, like clean water, should be common sense. And that's not something I want to leave to the profit motive of corporations." He shook his head. "But in the world of espionage you can't stay ahead of your rivals without getting your hands dirty."

"You always call your Agents your hands," Brutus remarked.

"Do I?" Midas's mouth twisted in a sardonic smile. "Why yes, I believe I do! I'm sinning by proxy, you might say. Does it bother you, Brutus?"

Brutus shook his head slowly. "Better to be the hand than be someone else's boot that stomps on some poor shmuck's fingers, I reckon."


	3. The Golden King [Earth Chapter 1]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We return to the time when Brutus first met Midas and the other agents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Preface note #1: The blame for the weird technological anachronisms on the Fortnite map must go to Epic Games. The spy bases have 1960s era computing machines with magnetic tape reels, blinking lights and big buttons existing side by side with 1980s era desktop computers outfitted with floppy disk drives and bulky CRT monitors, while at the same time there are modern LED flat screens on the walls and robotic henchmen serving at the Agency and other GHOST bases. I will be presenting my take on the reason why over the course of the coming chapters. So no, the Earth reality Midas comes from is not our Earth.
> 
> Preface note #2: I wrote Midas as left-handed/ambidextrous, and not just because I am myself left-handed and it's easier for me. In his iconic pose and on his statue on the Yacht, he holds the pistol in his left hand while holding up the globe with his right. In his character trailer, he holds the knight's helmet with his right hand and uses his left hand for his Golden Touch. That's exactly how I would do it.
> 
> I know, in-game he holds weapons like a right-handed person, but that's because the game engine has to use the same weapon aiming animations for all characters and simply replaces the character skin; this results in Midas peering through a sniper rifle's scope with his blind right eye in-game. Whenever video game mechanics go contrary to common sense, common sense should take precedence. 
> 
> Preface note #3: In this chapter I poke a bit of fun at Epic's in-game voices for the Brutus and Midas boss bots, because I frankly dislike those voices. I don't think they fit the characters as they are presented. I prefer Midas as a stiff-upper-lip Englishman, but the inflection of the distorted voice makes him sound pretentious and American to my ears? Is that just me?
> 
> Sadly, Epic decided to give the henchmen and boss bots Sims voices instead of actual voice lines. You can get a rough idea of what they are saying from their tone and inflection, but that's it. Not sure if Epic used actual voice actors or picked pre-programmed male and female voices from voice changer software. I assume one reason was to avoid the hassle of having to hire tons of voice actors for every language and country Fortnite is played in?
> 
> My personal favorite Midas voice, the voice I have in my ear when I write him, is the raspy, cool, quietly menacing, British-accented voice used by Ryan Stewart (aka. "Unknown Characters"), who is director, writer and voice actor for NewScapeProductions and plays Midas (among other characters) in their community-made Fortnite short films on the NewScapePro YT channels. His "grumpy Midas growl" is awesome. And those moments when he can't stop himself from chuckling mid-sentence while staying otherwise perfectly in character during the minigames joke episodes on NewScapepro 4 ("Find the Golden Midas… or Else (Fortnite Prop Hunt)", "Do As Midas Says… Or Die", "Skye plays Never Have I Ever (Fortnite Challenge)", "Find the Golden Killer (Fortnite Murder Mystery)", "Do As Cyclo Says… Or Die") are incredibly cute. I want canon Midas to be sarcastic and snarky. Epic, please.
> 
> Preface note #4: My apologies to all New Yorkers and Chicagoans for butchering their accent in writing. I balked at replacing every damn "the" and "that" with "teh" and "tat" or "dat" for both characters in the first part of this chapter, because doing that would have made the text illegible and driven me (and the automatic spellcheck) insane. Just imagine Jenkins with a Brooklyn accent.

**[GHOST Regional Headquarters Manhattan, New York City, USA. Seven years before the present]**

"Yo, Brutus!" Jenkins, his supervisor, called across the trainings room as he made his way past the rows of henchmen recruits practicing wrestling holds. "I got news foah you! You're being reassigned from N.Y.C. to Geneva headquarters in Switzerland in two days' time!"

"What? Why?" Brutus frowned. He blew his whistle to get the recruits' attention and clapped his hands once. "Okay, class, ten minutes pause! Take a piss, rehydrate, keep your muscles warm." He added in his best Schwarzenegger accent: _"I'll be back!"_ To the chuckle of the men he grabbed a bottle of water and a towel and made his way over to his supervisor while the recruits picked themselves off the wrestling mats and filed over to the benches, parting to make way for him.

"Was someone not happy with my job performance?" he asked, while he scrubbed his face and shaven head with the towel. His voice still carried his soft Chicago accent that his contact with New York's flatter accent hadn't yet eroded away.

Jenkin's wrinkles deepened as he smiled, teeth gleaming white in his dark-skinned face. "On de contrary! You're being kicked up de ladder, my man! The request came all de way from the top brass, the Big Boss himself. He asked for you _specifically_. Guess you impressed someone! The Big Boss visited us recently and took a tour of the facilities. Took a whole _hour_ out of his busy schedule to chat to me 'bout "life in the Big Apple" over espresso and British tea cakes he'd brought. Even had his man brew the cawfee. A true old school gentleman, Mr. Midas is. Called me 'Mr. Jenkins'. Said I was an _indispensable_ employee, and if I ever retired he'll be hard-pressed to find someone to fill my place!

"Anyways, he said he's lookin' for candidates for promotion - strong, loyal, diligent, _clevah_ \- and as I gave you glowin' references on your last evaluation, your name was on his list. Didn't say exactly what foah. But I heard he's lookin' for new enforcers, an' a new spot for a personal bodyguard opened up as well."

Jenkins didn't just have an ear to the proverbial grapevine, he _was_ the grapevine. If you wanted gossip, he was your man. If you needed some under-the-counter item, he was your man. In any army, he would naturally gravitate to the post of Sergeant. There was a saying among the men, _'If Mr. Midas does not know something, Jenkins does. If Jenkins doesn't know it, then even God doesn't.'_

"Bodyguard for dhe Boss…? Wait, did somethin' happen to Maria Chan?" Brutus asked, concerned.

"She's in hospital, _recuperatin'_ , that's what the memo said. Lost an arm. The Labcoats are fittin' her with a nuh cyber arm. But she's out of commission for a while, an' she's gonna be reassigned afterwards. The Big Boss offered her a cushy envoy post. It's your chance, Brutus! Enforcer duty is right up your alley." Jenkins grinned. He always said he was happy in the position he was in, but he liked finding opportunities for other people.

He patted Brutus's bulky shoulder, having to reach up to do so. "Paperwork and international passport are in your mailbox. Clean out your locker, pack your stuff, you have 50 kg weight allowance, excludin' weapons. That's about 100 pounds. "

"What about my weight-lifting stuff?" Brutus wondered. "And my weapons? Dhe twins, dhe saber, and Ludmilla?"

"The letter said you can bring your private weaponry with you, but they're travelin' in cargo. You're gonna fly on a company plane, first class, so don't worry about Customs. Everything too heavy to bring, write me a list, I'll file a replacement request with Logistics over in Switzerland. You are moving up from barracks to your own apartment, Brutus! Full laundry service, plenty of space, any furniture you want. Sounds like you have it as good as in the bag."

"First class? Seriously?" Brutus was flabbergasted.

"Yeah. You're babysittin' a package for the Big Boss on that flight. Vintage gramophone he bought in a New York antiques shop, or so I heard. One o' those Stone Age record players with a funny ice cream cone on top. Guess he doesn't want tah risk it gettin' banged about in the cargo hold."

"Who uses a gramophone dhese days when he could afford dhe biggest voice-controlled surround-sound stereo system money can buy?"

"Dunno. Someone who still wears garters to keep his socks up?"

Brutus guffawed. " _No way_. Does he, really?"

"Nah, I dunno, man. _You_ find out. I heard the Brits call garters 'suspenders', though." Jenkins grinned. "Been watchin' a lot of Monty Python reruns on BBC," he added.

Brutus frowned, like a man pondering a sphinx's puzzle. "Dhen... what do dhey call their suspenders?"

"Braces."

"Ain't dhat for teeth? Like, a retainer?"

"That's why they're all _posh_ and say "a pair of braces", see? When they're callin' someone their _retainer_ , they mean their butler or servants. The people doin' their dirty work for 'em."

" _Oh God_ ," Brutus groaned and dragged a hand down his face. "Now I'm afraid to even _talk_ to dhe man for fear of "hilarious" misunderstandings! What _were_ we even talking about when dhis whole madness started?"

"Heh heh, don't worry… just remember, don't ever ask him to drop his _pants_ when you mean trousers, because that's what Brits call their _underpants_." Jenkins grinned suggestively and waggled his eyebrows.

"I'm not going to tell him to drop _anything!_ " Brutus insisted in a panic. His shoulders slumped, defeated. "I reckon I need an American/British dictionary."

"I'll add it to the list."

* * *

**[GHOST Regional Headquarters, Geneva, Switzerland, Europe. Seven years before the present]**

Brutus sat in the hallway where he had been told by the front desk guy to stay put and wait "until Mr. Midas is ready to see you". As benches went, this one was upholstered and quite comfy. A security camera turned in his direction, but as he looked up, its impassive gaze moved on, scanning up and down the corridor. He tried to appear attentive but relaxed at the same time. On the way here he had passed through a small lobby with leather-upholstered couches, flat screens and a vending machines offering snacks and non-alcoholic drinks. He idly wished they had let him wait there. Here in the windowless hallway there was nothing to do but stare at the walls (white) or the floor (a geometric pattern of white and black marble streaked with golden veins) or some modern art prints on the walls. A silver-grey cleaning robot shaped like a triangular disk glided through the corridor with a faint hum, scanning the floor for non-existent dirt to justify its own existence.

Brutus wore his best (and only) suit that wasn't part of a henchman uniform. It was dark blue and no longer new, but rarely worn. He had bought it ten years ago for his sister's wedding. Luckily he still fit into it. He was thirty-five, and early onset male-pattern baldness had claimed most of his hair years ago so that at thirty he had decided to shave it all off, but he was proud he had not put on much weight around the waist. In fact, the suit was a bit tight in the shoulders and upper arms now where he had gained even more muscle since he had joined GHOST three years ago. He just had to remember not to flex his muscles or to breathe in too deeply. He left the suit jacket unbuttoned to be on the safe side.

There was no name on the door in front of him. No plate that said "Director" or similar. Just a logo on the dark polished wood, a logo that had become a brand of its own, known throughout the world as the symbol of the world's richest man: A golden handprint of a man's right hand. It felt corporate and primal at the same time.

At first glance, Brutus had assumed the handprint was painted on. But as he had a closer look at it, just out of curiosity, and had run his fingertips over the surface, he'd felt no sign of paint, no slightly elevated edge. The print gleamed under the lamp light, rich and deep metallic golden. Maybe it was a gold inlay? But there were no visible seams. Maybe it had been gilded with gold leaf? But it wasn't an outline of a stylized handprint filled in solidly with gold. Brutus could see fine creases and lines of a palm, even make out the faint whorl of a partial fingerprint. His brain refused to believe what his eyes were telling him: That a man's naked hand had burned a golden imprint into the surface of the door, transforming the wood to gold.

( _What a security risk_ , a cold analytical part of him had thought. _Maybe that is the reason there are no fingerprint scanners in the Agency, just face and iris scanners?_ )

He wondered if Midas would let him wait and stew, to rub it in who was in charge. But precisely on the hour, the heavy door swung open by itself with hardly a noise except a small hiss. Brutus saw the door was metal sandwiched between outer layers of wood paneling. " _Come in, Mr. Durante_ ," a sonorous male voice came over a hidden loudspeaker at the door. It sounded very precise, very British, a voice that said its owner could afford a voice coach.

Brutus dutifully stood up and went in. The room was a medium-sized bureau, all but empty safe for a large desk of polished wood crowded with computer terminals, placed with its back to the narrow (and most likely bullet-proof) floor-to-ceiling windows, a lone potted palm, some filing cabinets, and a leather couch off to the side next to what looked like the door of a minibar inconspicuously integrated into the wood of the wall paneling. Might be a concealed weapons cabinet, though, for all Brutus knew. A large flat-screen monitor was mounted high on the wall opposite the desk, next to the door Brutus had come in through.

There was a second door in the opposite wall, with a small rectangular window at the top through which Brutus could spot a tiled wall in the dark room beyond. Probably a personal bathroom, then. Brutus' steps clacked on the spotless, polished flagstones of the floor. As far as rooms went, this was the most impersonal private workspace he'd ever seen. No personal touch, no photos on the desk. Not even a damn carpet. Just black marble floors, with a spiderweb pattern of fine golden veins running through the stone.

There was a man seated behind the desk, with a large circular plaque displaying the GHOST logo on the wall behind him directly above his head. He was framed by the morning light that streamed in through the windows to both sides of his desk and glinted off his steepled hands. His face was cast into shadow by the backlighting. Yet his left eye glowed oddly bright and golden. Brutus had seen pictures of his employer, but had never met him in person and up-close until now: Midas, the world's first (and only) trillionaire.

The man had the beautiful but uncanny face of a doll, perfectly proportioned, with elegant eyebrows over large but deep-set eyes, high cheekbones accentuated by his hollow cheeks, a straight nose, a narrow but well-defined chin and a sharp jawline framed by the dark lines of tattoos running from his ears to his throat and encircling his neck. Almost too handsome for a guy, Brutus thought. If he had longer eyelashes, Brutus would even have called his face feminine-pretty. The only thing that marred its perfection was the long pinkish scar that ran down from his forehead to his cheek and brutally bisected the man's right eyebrow.

The only color on him was the golden sheen of his hands. They gleamed from his fingers to his wrists in the deep, rich luster of purest gold. Everything else about him was oddly monochrome, from his clothes — dark gray trousers, dark gray vest, white shirt —, the blackwork tattoos on his arms and neck, to his extremely pale skin. There was a weird, faint grayish-brown tint to his marble complexion that Brutus found unnatural and slightly off-putting. Normally, light-skinned people looked more… pinkish, right?

Midas wore his dark brown straight hair in a layered disconnected undercut, buzzed short to the skin on the sides and back, with the long hair on top neatly side-parted and combed to the right side where his pearly blind eye was. Brutus was sure the man used pomade, because in this sterile office he could faintly make out a peach scent he had last smelled in childhood, a brand of pomade his grandfather had sworn by. Usually, Brutus couldn't stand the type of men sporting excessively _trendy_ hairstyles, because nine times out of ten they tended to be smug arrogant fuckers. But in this case, the ragged undercut in combination with his conservative clothing made Midas look strangely like a time-traveling librarian who had dropped in straight from the 1930s. The only thing missing were wire-rimmed glasses.

Brutus felt it impossible to guess the man's age… on first glance his face looked impossibly young, as it lacked all the little creases and lines that laughter, sorrow and age carved into a person's face. His face looked untouched by time. His skin and nearly colorless lips looked so smooth, Brutus wondered for a moment if the man wore make-up like a TV personality. But on second or third glance, he gave the impression of a man much older, middle-aged at least. It was something in his gaze. Thirty? Forty? Forty-five? Brutus found it impossible to tell. Surely, it must have taken a while to build that financial empire, right?

You could not imagine Midas looking sweaty or disheveled, while Brutus was trying very hard not to sweat from nervousness right now and only partially succeeded. Physically, Brutus could probably break the slim man on the other side of that desk in half with his bare hands. But there were rumors what had happened to people who annoyed Mr. Midas: political scandals, sudden bankruptcies, suicides, assassinations in gang wars, plain old accidents… Nothing that could be traced back to Midas, of course, nothing that had ever been proven. And Mr. Midas employed a hit squad of extremely well-paid lawyers ready to file libel cases against anyone who talked shit about him.

Midas did not rise when Brutus came in, but he pointed to the U-shaped upholstered armchair in front of the desk. "Please, sit." The man's voice had a raspy timbre.

Brutus sat down. The chair was surprisingly comfy as he sank down into it, with its armrests and backrest cradling his torso, even if it was a bit of a tight fit for his bulk. He noticed the desk was bolted to the floor and the computer terminals encased in EMP-shielding were integrated into the high-tech looking desk. Not much that could be used as an impromptu weapon by potential attackers.

Midas tapped the closed paper file that was laid out in front of him, perfectly aligned with the gold-plated fountain pen next to it. Then, with one precise movement, he slid the document across the desk towards Brutus. "Your file. Take a look and tell me if you find any errors." Midas leaned back again, steepling his fingers. His voice was a languid drawl, but with carefully enunciated syllables that he flicked at you like a whip just when you thought he was indifferent to the conversation.

Brutus picked up the pale blue binder with the GHOST company logo on it and started paging through it. He found his life laid out bare, reduced to data: Date of birth (1978-05-20), place of birth (Chicago, USA), parents, elder sister, childhood illnesses and vaccinations, blood group, allergies and other pre-existing medical conditions ('none'), religious affiliation ('Roman Catholic, non-attendance'). Misspent youth, places of residence, enlistment in the army, various jobs (some legal, some not), minor criminal record, credit rating, and a few private things he had not hoped to see in there. But what had he expected? GHOST was an intelligence agency. It was their job to find things out.

The binder was rather slim. Which made sense, you don't show an employee everything you have on him. The next pages covered his time since his recruitment by GHOST: medical evaluation, assignments, reports. Standard stuff. Lots of cross references to file numbers of other documents that were not in here.

On the last page, all it said was:

PSYCHOLOGICAL EVALUATION: — _Redacted—_ (ref. no. GRH-EUS-M-2010-06-26)

_Loyalty rating: high_

_Note: Subject resents psychological testing._

Brutus thoughtfully sucked on his teeth and raised his eyebrows. Well, they were not wrong. He looked up and saw Midas was still watching him like a hawk. _Shit._

"It… seems to be in order," he said reluctantly. He wasn't sure what was expected of him. He closed the binder and put the file back down, returning it to Midas.

"Good. Now, tell me about yourself."

"Hmm?" _Here it comes_ , Brutus thought, _the old 'We know all about you… now kindly tell us what we don't know' spiel._

"Your file only gives me the bare bones. I want to get to know the _man_ , Mr. Durante, the meat and gristle of your life."

"Um, I prefer _Brutus_ , Sir. Just Brutus. Mr. Durante was my dad."

"I see." Midas picked up the fountain pen, removed the cap, flipped open the file and jotted down a quick note. Brutus noticed the man was left-handed (or at least wrote with his left hand); he had turned the file at a 45° angle with a deft motion before he wrote so his hand wouldn't run the risk of smearing the ink as his hand moved from left to right. Brutus remembered Midas had pushed the file over to him with his left hand as well.

"Ah yes. Your father, who made quite a name for himself on the streets of Chicago as a leader of the _Skulls_ gang. And your mother… car mechanic by day, sharpshooter in Vaudeville shows by night."

"They scraped enough money together to buy a motel with diner and raise my sister and me." Brutus felt oddly defensive of his parents' achievements. With a pang, he realized he still missed them.

"Indeed. Your father was Italo-American, while your mother's parents emigrated, or rather fled, from Königsberg in East-Prussia to the United States in 1945," Midas stated without consulting the file. "Immigration officers labeled them variously as ethnically Russian or Polish instead of German on the documents," he said with a growl of distaste in his voice. " _Idiots_. That mislabeling got your grandparents on an FBI watch list as potential spies during McCarthy's Red Scare, did you know that?"

"No, Sir, I didn't. I remember my grandmother steadfastly refused to call Kaliningrad anything but Königsberg till the end of her days. I don't even speak Russian, but back in the gangs people called me either _Spaghetti_ or _Russki_." Brutus shrugged. "They stopped after I punched them in the mouth."

Midas looked at him, head cocked to the side. "Any history of domestic violence or drinking in your family?"

"No, Sir," Brutus said emphatically.

A scarred eyebrow came up. "No? That is _quite unusual_ for a man of your history and occupation."

" _Sir?_ "

"You have worked as an enforcer for several organized crime bosses in the Italian Mafia, the Polish Mafia, the Yakuza. Your trademark weapons are a metal hammer and a cleaver. Quite brutal weapons."

"They were my father's weapons before mine, Sir. Keepsakes from his job in the Chicago slaughterhouse district. From back in those days before they had captive bolt pistols, when they had to stun the cattle with a hammer to the forehead before cutting the jugular. But I always try to leave wounds that will heal, Sir."

"With a hammer and _serrated_ _cleaver_?"

"It's amazing what people are willing to do to _avoid_ having their kneecaps and fingers smashed, Sir. Showing them the weapons is usually enough. Especially after word got around I can throw the cleaver and hit bullseye from ten yards away."

"Quite so. Tell me, have you killed people before, Brutus?"

"I… Yes, Sir. I had to kill three men in gang fights."

Midas nodded and sprang the next question disguised as a statement on him. "Sixteen years ago you joined the US Army Infantry branch and received training, among other things, in the Small Arms Master Gunner course and the Heavy Weapons Master Gunner course. But shortly afterwards you were dishonorably discharged. For hitting and injuring a fellow soldier during a verbal dispute."

"Yes." Brutus saw no use in denying it, but neither did he feel a need to elaborate. As long as Midas didn't ask for details, he wouldn't tell.

Midas leaned back, drumming his fingertips together while he studied him quietly. The man was as good as unreadable. He only seemed to have two expressions, cool attentiveness and cool annoyance.

Brutus could feel sweat trickle down his back. He fought an urge to scratch his nose.

Midas pursed his lips. "I want you to attack me to show me how you would overpower me if you were an assassin or kidnapper," he ordered emotionlessly.

" _What?_ " Brutus felt panic flare up. "But… Sir, I can't… you're my _Boss!_ I might accidentally hurt you! And, um…"

"Yes?"

"There's rumors what happens to people who upset you, Sir."

"Don't worry. Half of those rumours I spread myself," Midas replied casually. The man was smiling thinly, a predatory smile that did not reach his eyes, which did nothing to make Brutus feel safer.

Midas flexed his hands and the golden sheen flowed along his arms and under his clothing and covered his body until in mere heartbeats he had turned into the perfect likeness of a golden-haired gleaming statue in front of Brutus's eyes. Brutus had never seen the transformation live and up close. It was beautiful and terrifying at the same time, like watching a real dragon land on Fifth Avenue.

"Don't worry about accidentally hurting me. You won't be able to in this state. Here are the rules: The guns hidden throughout this room have been loaded with gel ammunition. If I manage to shoot you in a fatal spot, you lose. If I manage to touch your bare skin, you lose. In a real fight, guards would arrive soon after I called for help. I grant you five minutes to overpower me. You may take off your jacket first."

Brutus hastily shouldered out of his jacket and hung it over the back of his chair and performed a few basic stretching exercises for his muscles. He wished he had been given more time for warm-up, but he didn't want to keep the Boss waiting. He nodded at Midas as he stepped up to the desk.

The man returned the nod. "3-2-1 _now_!" He snapped his fingers.

Brutus felt adrenaline flood his system, but he was back in the ring, facing an opponent. _Breathe_. In one fluid motion he reached across the desk and grabbed Midas's left wrist just as Midas tried to reach for a gun hidden below the desk, just as Brutus had anticipated. The golden sheen on his eyes made it hard to read where exactly the man was looking, but Brutus's instinct had been correct.

His triumph was short-lived when Midas pulled out a _second_ pistol with his right hand. Brutus slammed the edge of his palm against the man's right arm. It hurt as if he had punched a solid metal bar, but it made the shot veer wide off the mark and paint the computer keyboard with a splash of color. _Ow, son of a — !_

Decisions flashes through his mind. ( _Desk – bolted down. Grab gun? No, pointless. Can't hurt him with guns even if it was a real one. Must overpower him. Wrap jacket around his hands._ ) He slapped the pistol from the man's fingers. It slid off the desk and skittered across the floor.

Midas struggled to free his left wrist. He was a lot stronger than Brutus had expected from the man's pipe-cleaner arms, but Brutus clenched his hand and twisted Midas's hand downwards. Without the gold, he was certain he would have ripped a sinew or broken a few bones in the man's wrist at this point. Judging by the man's expression, Midas wasn't too happy about it, regardless of alleged invulnerability.

Brutus grabbed Midas's other arm around the forearm as the man stood up and reached out with his right hand towards Brutus's face. He lifted the man bodily, which elicited a yelp of surprise, and in one swift motion pulled him across the desk until they were chest to chest. Before Midas could regain his balance, Brutus lifted his arm and spun him around like a dance partner in a Tango so that Midas ended up with his back pressed to Brutus's chest in a chokehold, with Brutus's left arm wrapped around Midas's throat while he held tight to the man's arm. With his right hand he pulled Midas's left arm across the man's own chest in an improvised straightjacket hold so he couldn't drive his elbow into Brutus's ribs. He pushed Midas bodily up against the desk to trap the man's legs and deprive him of sufficient room to lift his knees to be able to kick backwards with force.

At this point he realized his mistake. A real attacker wouldn't be able to immobilize Midas by choking him into unconsciousness. Punching him in the face might result in a broken hand (apart from the _very bad not good_ idea of punching your own Boss in the face). What now?

Midas lowered his golden head then slammed it back, catching Brutus on the chin. It _hurt_. For a moment, Brutus was stunned, black spots dancing in his vision. He tasted iron on his tongue and hoped his jaw wasn't broken. He took an involuntary step backwards, almost falling over the armchair in the process. He felt his arms going slack and tightened his grip around the man's chest with a growl. He'd been punched in the face before, with brass knuckles, too; if Midas thought he could knock him out that easily he was mistaken. This was turning into rough, unpolished street-style brawling, but if Midas wanted to fight dirty, Brutus could do that too.

He suddenly came to the cold realization that while Midas claimed _he_ couldn't get hurt, he himself might get seriously hurt if Midas didn't pull his punches. A broken tooth would be the least problem. The man was smaller than Brutus, so his head was at perfect height with Brutus chin… or his Adam's apple. Was Midas aware that you could kill a person by hitting their larynx hard enough to crush their trachea?

Brutus shifted his grip on the man's arms to wrangle him into a Half Nelson while standing, passing his right arm under the man's right armpit and locking a big hand around the man's thin neck from behind to force his head down until Midas' chin was pressed against his chest. He held Midas's left arm in front of Midas' chest, but that left the man's right hand free, albeit at an awkward angle so that he would have to reach back blindly over his own shoulder to claw at Brutus's face. ( _Don't let him touch your skin!_ )

When he felt Midas shift his weight, he assumed the man would attempt to slither downwards out of his grasp. Instead Midas took the opportunity of renewed leg room to lean back into Brutus, supporting his full body weight onto Brutus's arms as he lifted his knees up to his chest then kicked down hard against the edge of the desk with both feet, in an attempt to push them both backwards and topple Brutus over. Brutus stumbled backwards and narrowly avoided falling on his ass onto the hard stone floor. _Okay, no more Mr. Nice Guy._

He realized something odd. Despite the fact that Midas had to all appearances turned into a gold statue, his body weight didn't seem to have increased. A hundred and thirty pounds, give or take, Brutus estimated, no more than a hundred and forty pounds tops. He was confident he could lift Midas over his head bodily, if he wanted, and throw him… but that would mean letting go of the man's wrists.

No, time for a good ol' belly-to-back facebuster. He pivoted to the right to have an empty expanse of floor in front of them, then slid his left arm, still holding the man's arm in an iron grip, down to Midas's waist while his other hand kept him in a neck hold. He shifted his own weight to the right leg to kick out Midas's legs from under him with the other and lifted him up around the waist and neck, arm clamped around the man's body so tightly he was sure he would have left bruises or cracked the lower ribs on a normal man. Then he dove forward, forcing Midas down with his own body and greater weight, at the last moment releasing his left arm, to slam him face-first into the floor where he landed belly-down with Brutus on top of him. The man's golden body impacted the stone heavily, but unlike a statue his body still yielded. The air was driven from his lungs with an _oof_ , which seemed to stun him temporarily.

While Midas scrabbled under him to get up on hands and knees, Brutus moved quickly and knelt sideways on his back to pin him to the ground, digging his knee into the man's left shoulder blade while twisting Midas's right arm up and behind his back in a submission hold, earning him a hiss. It was meant to be painful. Could the man's shoulder joint be dislocated in his state? Brutus didn't want to risk it. He felt the man trying to buck under him, but he was easily keeping him down with his superior weight. He grabbed the man's leg with his left hand for good measure when he tried to kick. "Do you submit?"

"…!" Midas clearly weighted his options and found none, because he stopped struggling. "Yes," he rasped.

Brutus got off his back and offered a hand to help his Boss up. Midas stayed on his hands and knees on the floor for a moment longer and drew a deep breath. Then he took the offered hand and sprang to his feet. The golden sheen receded back to his wrists, revealing a faint flush that had crept onto his pale skin. His breathing had quickened and strands of hair had fallen into his face. He wasn't sweating from the exertion, but from up close Brutus' nostrils instead caught a faint, musky smell of… _arousal_? (' _My God_ ,' thought Brutus, ' _is the man getting turned on by this? Does he get off on being beaten up_?') He couldn't spot any tell-tale bulge in his Boss's pants, but maybe the man wore an athlete's cup to protect himself from kicks to the groin. Or he simply had iron-hard self-control.

"Well done," Midas said with a wry smile as he smoothed down his waistcoat. "Quite impressive. It seems you found a gap in my defense strategy."

"You always have to reach for a gun first," Brutus explained. "While I've got my weapons right here," he slapped his fist into his palm, and then winced.

"True, but if this had been a fight for real you would have been dead. If an assassin gave me any opportunity to touch them, I would turn them into a gold statue."

Brutus swallowed. So the rumors were right on that point. He wondered if the story about the garden full of screaming golden statues was true as well…

Brutus flexed his stinging hand and rubbed his chin. His jaw still hurt, but it didn't feel broken and the lip wasn't split. Small mercies. His chin was like an anvil, it had taken poundings before. He'd probably sport a bruise for a couple days though.

"Are you all right? Are you injured?" Midas asked, concerned. Brutus muttered that he was fine. Midas made a small ' _tsk_ ' noise. "Let me get you some ice." He leaned over and pressed a button on his desk and a wall panel slid open, revealing a minibar. He sauntered over and opened the freezer section, took out a gel coolpack and tossed it to Brutus, who caught it gratefully. "Water, lemonade, juice or beer?" he asked casually, nodding towards the rows of bottles. "Don't worry, it's non-alcoholic," he added.

"A soda pop would be nice," Brutus mumbled, still unsure of what the hell had happened. Was he hired or fired?

Midas picked two bottles, opened them and expertly filled two glasses. The cabinet closed noiselessly as he wandered back to his desk, glasses in hand. He handed one glass off to Brutus, then perched on a corner of the desk. Brutus picked his chair back up and sat down. They drank in comfortable silence. Lemon soda with ginger flavor and a cool mint note, Brutus noted. Not bad. Fancy stuff, probably 100% real, no artificial flavors.

Midas seemed to be in a good mood and so Brutus decided to take a risk. "If I may speak freely, Sir, you rely too much on guns and your golden touch. If people manage to immobilize you, you're toast. You should get some training in martial arts suitable to your weight class that teach you how to get out of holds and avoid being tied down."

"Duly noted."

"Why do you even _need_ a bodyguard, Sir, if you are bullet-proof?"

"Most of the time, your job will be to stand behind me and look imposing to discourage the crazies. We want to prevent any… _incidents_ , so I _don't_ have to defend myself." Midas's voice switched from businesslike to sarcastic. "Turns out turning people to gold in public is generally frowned upon. Who would have thought!"

He finished his drink and put the empty glass on his desk, then gestured to Brutus to do likewise. "Right. Just leave it, someone will come and collect them. Now, take me to your flat. Your apartment, I mean."

"S-sir?" Brutus wasn't sure where this was going.

"I wish to see your apartment. You moved in three days ago. Plenty of time to have given it a personal touch."

* * *

Instead of taking a limousine, they had taken a generic two-seater hybrid from the company car pool. Midas had insisted on a manual vehicle with stick shift and told Brutus to drive while he slid into the passenger seat. _Another test for the American_ , Brutus thought while he released the hand brake. _Step on clutch pedal and brake pedal, turn key in ignition, good, now let go of brake pedal, then push the accelerator pedal while gently letting go of the clutch… gently… there._ He backed the car out of its space, then stepped on the clutch again and smoothly shifted the stick from reverse into first gear. It was quickly coming back to him. Luckily he had learned to drive all sorts of cars and trucks with gearboxes in the army. He had the licenses to prove it, so surely Midas must have known. 

His apartment was part of a nearby gated community housing complex, owned no doubt by one of Midas's companies. During the short drive, Midas kept glancing over to study Brutus' face in profile with unashamed curiosity. Brutus started to wonder if _that_ was the reason Midas had chosen the passenger seat? To be on the right side of the car? At first he had assumed that a man like Midas was too used to having a personal chauffeur. But if Midas had taken the wheel, he would have had Brutus sitting on his blind side for the entire ride.

"Brutus? The tattoo on the back of your head. Is that a horse?"

"It's a llama."

"May I ask why?"

"Llamas don't take no shit from anybody. _Sir_."

"Fair enough."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay. I had to split this part again, the next chapter will hopefully follow in the next couple days.  
> I have decided to stay close to game canon only up to patch 12.60, and ignore everything from patch 12.61 on, including 'The Device' live event, because the outline and ending to my story is already written and I want to take it into a different direction. 
> 
> I may write a story that stays closer to game canon and deals with 'The Device' event and its aftermath for Midas, Brutus and the others in Chapter 2 Season 3. (I call this "The one where Midas is now also stuck in the Loop and has gone totally bonkers".) I saw the event live. It didn't answer any of the questions I had hoped it would answer, and instead added a lot of new ones. At least we now know _why_ the in-game NPC Bosses have those distorted voices. I took screenshots off my recorded footage and the Replay, especially haunting because I had worn the Ghost-Midas skin. Seeing Midas standing in Agent John Jones' office like a creature from legend gave me goosebumps. 
> 
> Then there was NewScapeProduction's fanfilm, _The End of the Agency_ , their Season 2 finale, that brought their own (non-canonical) Midas story arc to a bitter-sweet end for Midas, including their own spin on the Device event with footage taken from the event. They actually put Midas into the Cyclo suit, something Epic unexpectedly didn't. 
> 
> ... well, speaking of Epic's own handling of Midas, I spent the first two days of the new Season 3 not even playing but seething with anger about those first 10 seconds of Season 3 'Splashdown' launch trailer. Yes, _that_ scene. Congrats, Epic. To quote excerpts from my own Twitter posts:
>
>> Epic, you actually let Midas survive the Device only to turn him into a wimp & let him get eaten by a SHARK as a lame JOKE? So the man who can turn himself into GOLD, has shark tattoos, has defeated creatures like Black Knight, gets eaten in the trailer as a joke? GFY, Epic!!!
>
>> Seriously, after the dramatic event this treatment of Midas is a slap in the face. You didn't merely kill him off (as we never see him emerge alive in the trailer, it implies he's dead), in 10 sec you erased every aspect of a character you'd built up as smart, cool, powerful.
>
>> Seriously, why bother making Midas one of the three characters whose Top Secret files were on the table in John Jones's office during the Event's "visions", when you then just shit all over him and kill him off in the S3 trailer?
>
>> Whoever hack at Epic make this trailer, congratulations, you committed character assassination of an iconic lore character in the literal and figurative sense. You turned Midas into a cartoonish joke.
>
>> When Epic takes a character they had previously carefully designed to be elegant, precise, resourceful, undaunted, controlled in his manners and movements, and turns him into an openmouthed fearful butt of a joke who gets mocked for losing everything he had, that does piss me off.
>
>> So now, Midas's status will forever be "lost, all alone, eaten by shark, potentially dead", because the chance Epic will bother to make another trailer that shows Midas as alive and rescued is 0%. Because they no longer need him for the plot, so they discard him in the worst manner possible. That "eaten by shark" scene is a giant middle finger.
>
>> This trailer is giving me mood whiplash. Ch2S2 was this super-serious James Bond style world with stylish spies and assassins, and a dramatic world-shaking event. But now suddenly this turned into Loony Toons Waterworld/Borderlands, full of cartoonish "funny" violence.
>
>> So, the "Storm" is back as if the Device never banished it, but the after-effects of the flood are still there. No wonder Midas is depressed. It demotes his personal plot to just a plot device to trigger the new season's gimmick. Lesson: I shouldn't care about storytelling in FN?
>
>> Midas [on that raft ] looks so sad and depressed it pains me. And his utter terror at seeing the horrific shark breaks my heart. He used to be so undaunted and unfazable. Now Midas is not just broke, he's _broken._ How's that supposed to be funny, Epic? IT'S NOT FUNNY! Someone save him. Give that man a hug, goddammit. Epic, give Midas and Brutus a room on the Fortilla together, please. 
> 
> For my own peace of mind I've decided to take it the way Epic (probably? hopefully?) intended that scene: As a mindless joke to lead into the rest of the cartoonish action-packed trailer, not an actual on-screen death. But yes, if you freeze the frame you can see the shark jump him with wide-open mouth and chomp him. Those teeth... (shudder) 


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